


The Wingman

by srsly_yes



Series: The Wingman [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-19
Updated: 2008-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship, blindness, and a charity ball. House-Wilson friendship story with a kind of role reversal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Command Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** The worst happened before the story. This is set in a future season.  
> **Disclaimer:** House MD is so good! Just want to play in the sandbox and share toys. None of it's mine.  
> **A/N:** Want to thank my betas [](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/profile)[**bookfan85**](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/) and [](http://kimmie-kins.livejournal.com/profile)[**kimmie_kins**](http://kimmie-kins.livejournal.com/) for their sharp eyes and encouragement.

.

 

Returning from Cuddy’s office, House leaned his back against the wall of the elevator, bowing his head in thought until the doors slid open for diagnostics. He leveraged off with his left foot, propelling himself down the hall, but not to his office. He headed to the hermit crab’s shell next to his. The dark one with the shuttered blinds.

Close to two years ago there had been a cosmic shift, and now he was balancing on a slipstream. It seemed at times that he had traded places with Wilson. Now he was the one plotting with Cuddy how to motivate and keep his friend out of trouble.

It seemed impossible that he could be capable of such altruism, but at least he could compensate and take it out on his fellows and clinic personnel. If he sat through one of Wilson’s self-pitying sulks, he made certain to insult the competence of one of his team members and order another round of tests. If he talked Wilson down from some bitter diatribe, he ensured that the clinic patients backed up in the waiting room. It kept the universe in check and black holes from swallowing the earth.

Even Cuddy would be hard pressed to believe House was concerned for his friend. He waited until she was on the verge of a stroke and threaten to triple his clinic hours before he allowed her to persuade him to help Wilson.

If anybody knew how he felt, he would have to kick a puppy or drown a litter of kittens in a pillowcase.

He stood at the door with his left hand in his pocket fiddling with his Vicodin bottle, working the cap off so he could dry swallow a couple of pills and not deal with any physical pain while breaching Wilson's emotional fortress. He couldn’t decide if he should test the door or knock. He was unsure of the reaction either one would provoke. Just as he resolved to try the knob, he heard the scrape of the dead bolt, and saw a wrist opening the door a crack. Wilson was already moving back into his cave as he spoke from inside the office, “You don’t need the Vicodin. It isn’t your leg bothering you. It’s Cuddy.”

House didn’t comment about Wilson’s superhero hearing. It no longer surprised either of them. The ability was always there, but untapped as long as all five senses were functioning.

Before he closed the door behind him and limped to the couch, he glimpsed Wilson behind his desk, the back of his chair facing the sofa. His legs stretched out, one crossed over the other. He was slumped in his chair, left elbow propped against his chest with his fingers rubbing the scar that slashed down the left side of his forehead from the temple to the eyelid, changing to a bare tire track through the forest of his eyebrow. Neither the nose pinch that once focused his eyes, nor the eye palm that cleared his vision were necessary now, and were replaced by this one mannerism. Wilson’s eyes were place holders that added no value. The once expressive liquid brown pools that could mesmerize the entire nursing staff remained permanently unfocused and askew underneath sleepy lids.

As House settled into the corner of the sofa, the chair creaked and pivoted briefly in his direction and a card flew from the oncologist’s hand, glancing off House's chest. He caught it before it fluttered to the ground. It was too dark in the office to read the print, but he recognized the textured surface and embossed edge as the same card Cuddy waved in his face an hour ago.

He heard a rumbling in the dark, “Cuddy insists that you be my wingman at the big donor function this Friday. If I don’t make an appearance, it’s my job.” House lowered his eyes as the voice cracked at the end.

Wilson was right.

Cuddy was in a panic. The Powers That Be were pressuring her to replace the head of oncology. It didn’t impress the suits that mortality and safety metrics were at benchmark levels, that Wilson traded his patient load for more burgeoning administrative duties and board meetings, added profitable inter-hospital consultations, and waged battles to improve the pain management program. Bottom line—it was costly to have a blind oncologist on staff. Additional personnel were hired. An admin assistant transcribed journals and reports into audio and Braille, and a fellow worked closely by Wilson's side reviewing staff diagnoses and handling liaison duties on consults.

Department heads were counted on to be rainmakers. It was written into all the contracts. Wilson never liked elbow rubbing to begin with, but slid by on his easy charm, drawn as if by radar to the women who controlled the checkbooks. One spin around the ballroom, and he thanked them for the dance, leaving their corporations or husbands a little poorer.

The Board viewed Wilson's self-imposed exile as neglecting his job responsibilities. The ADA would be ineffectual in protecting him.

The room was darker than a confessional. Now was the time for both of them to level with each other. House began, "You know it’s not Cuddy, right?”

“I know.”

“You've attended only one charity event since you returned, and canceled the last two.”

Wilson didn’t turn around as he bit out, “The Board hasn’t forgiven me for missing the ‘Italian Serenade’ and ‘The Bacchanal.’” A bark of harsh laughter trailed behind the words.

The diagnostician picked up on the tone, and he tried to match it to the sound tracks of Wilson's voice that he stored in his head. In the not too distant past, the only purpose House needed this information was for poker.

He heard a dusting of fear. And now, what didn’t Wilson fear? He avoided people’s prying questions. Hated the slightest suggestion that he was making a fool of himself. As the ultimate giver—would either flee or become catatonic if anybody offered help, especially without asking first. House stopped at the last two; there was something about the last two…

He almost smiled when he hit upon the most likely reason. Slippery spaghetti with messy red meat sauce was the entrée at the “Italian Serenade.”

“Couldn’t starve yourself one evening for your little bald kids?”

He knew he hit pay dirt when Wilson responded after a long pause, “And stand around acting anorexic while everyone is eating? They expect me to dazzle a retired industrial mogul into donating a hefty percentage of his golden parachute with red spatter stains running down my shirt?”

House nodded his head at the room at large. Assorted tiny green and amber lights from computer equipment glowed and winked back at him. He was onto something. He ignored the sarcasm and thought about "The Bacchanal." He pitched another ball. “Trouble with those delicate long-stemmed wineglasses?”

The rich voice narrowed to a knife’s edge. “Because splashing wine on a matron’s designer gown makes an even better impression than spaghetti stains. The same hands that could tie off a bleeder can’t pick up a wineglass without knocking it over, or take a five-minute reconnaissance mission to find it. Last time, someone thought they’d be helpful and slid the glass next to my hand.”

“That son-of-a-bitch!" House slipped into a cowboy twang. “I hope someone took him out and shot him for the dirty, rotten dog he was.” He cocked his eye and checked to see if there was any reaction from the chair. Nothing.

“Wilson, begin accepting the fact that you're a cripple like me. If you can’t ask for help once in a while, at least ask for your wine poured into a water glass.”

“Advice from the politically incorrect ‘Dear Abby.’ Thanks.”

“You want to join the unemployment line rather than ask the person next to you to pass the garlic bread?”

“Why did I doubt you’d understand?”

Their argument sounded like any other daily disagreement, but House was desperate for Wilson to reverse his stand, and decided to try another tack. “It’s not just your job that’s on the line.”

House was gratified to hear the office chair swivel toward him. He could make out a hunched silhouette leaning forward in his direction. “What do you mean?”

“Cuddy explained that once the exec board fired you they would be out for more blood. I’ll be gone within six months if you're not here to defend me.” House took advantage of his friend’s lack of vision and rolled his eyes, hoping that Wilson’s canine hearing wouldn’t detect them rotating, and catch him in a lie.

Sarcasm and bitterness disappeared under the onslaught of caring and concern. “They wouldn’t do that, would they?”

“Cuddy says there’s no question about it. That’s why she insisted I come along and run interference. Of course it’s a win-win for her. She gets two bastards for the price of one.”

He sat with his head down, elbows resting on his knees, holding his cane with both hands out in front of him. He waited for Wilson to weigh what he considered to be his ethical responsibility for their friendship.

The office was silent except for a finger tapping on the desk, and a heavy rubber tip occasionally falling against the carpeted floor. Poor substitutes for the loyal hearts beating in the same room.

House looked up and leaned forward as he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a long exhale.

Resignation cradled the words, “Damn. What are they serving?”

.

* * *

**A/N:** ADA = Americans with Disabilities Act

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/wordpress.org/)


	2. Cuddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddy recalls Wilson's accident. House wants more time to prepare Wilson for the donor's ball.

.

 

No flamenco dancer's castanets could rival the sound of Dr. Lisa Cuddy's heels clicking through the hospital lobby. The petite dynamo was in super drive as she returned to her office with a lunch container in her hand. She couldn't spare to be away for more than a few minutes at a time today as she checked in with the team members in charge of the Director's Ball.

The gala was tonight, and it surpassed all other affairs for the year combined. She was ringmaster, magician, and juggler rolled into one. She ensured that the food pleased every palate, the wine flowed like a failing levee, and each magnate wrote a check with orgasmic pleasure. If the Super Bowl was on Christmas it couldn't be more exciting.

Cuddy sank into her chair, and popped open the box that contained her salad. Her other hand glided down her leg to her ankle and slipped off one of her spiked heels. The twin followed a moment later. She flexed her toes and closed her eyes in pleasure as the soles of her feet made contact with the cool surface of the desk mat. She might as well get comfortable. She wouldn’t get another break until it was time to go home and change into the slinky, crimson, silk gown she left hanging on the molding of her bedroom doorway.

Returning to her email, Cuddy scanned and deleted with the deftness and speed of a French pickpocket, imperceptibly slowing for a message sent by her admin advising her of two last minute cancellations. Only two couples—that was good news. Other years were worse. She checked the seating chart to locate where the empty chairs would be. As she speared a marble-sized tomato she eyed the waiting list and began playing matchmaker. She was looking for a good fit with the other guests at table number two. Across the opening a prescription company CEO and his wife were penciled in, and alongside, the head of orthopedics. It was a prime piece of real estate. She typed the names of her top selection and two alternates, pressed Ctrl+Enter simultaneously, and sent off the reply.

She began a new search for the second cancellation as the glossy scarlet tip of her fingernail ran down the corresponding chart of names. When it stopped, Cuddy swore under her breath. Table number three. The two empty chairs were opposite House and Wilson—formerly known as _The Odd Couple_ of Princeton Plainsboro. She thought of them now as her _Bad Boys_. Unfortunately, because of the diagnostician and oncologist these were the two most difficult seats to fill. She suspected the donors canceled because someone told them that they would be sitting across from the least approachable doctors in the hospital.

Every ‘A’ lister respected House’s acumen for solving mysterious illnesses. It was one of the most popular features in her monthly newsletter. But, to stand in the unkempt man’s presence was an entirely different experience.

They could count themselves lucky if he ignored them. The unlucky majority received a bored look and a scowl if they tried to engage him in a conversation. The cursed walked away dazed after rude insults were lobbed at them. She could tell when a new heavy hitter made his acquaintance because within a week she would receive a polite but firm call petitioning her to move the brusque doctor's place setting to the opposite end of the room from theirs for all future events. She graciously agreed, and the understanding was cemented by a follow-up check.

It used to be only House, now Cuddy had Wilson to deal with too. Her energy ebbed as vivid memories blurred her focus.

She sat back in her chair and shook her head. Life could be so unfair.

* * *

The shrill ring of the phone ripped through the night and dragged her away from her dreams. Grabbing the receiver, Cuddy anticipated what kind of emergency could have happened at the hospital, but it wasn’t the hospital. It was House.

_“Cuddy. There’s been an accident."_

A chill trickled down her spine and she knew immediately who he was talking about. He didn’t have to say it was Wilson.

She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was nearly four in the morning. He would have made the same call and begun the same way if he called about one of his team members, either the old or the new, but this preamble was a lament. He could only be talking about his best friend.

Wilson had emailed a reminder to her on Wednesday that he was driving down to Hopkins for a medical conference.

Pulling back the covers, Cuddy was already out of bed as she asked, “How bad, House? Is he in Emergency?” She was afraid he was going to say the morgue.

“They brought him out of surgery a half hour ago. I’m at Philadelphia General." His words were becoming progressively subdued. “It was a head-on, Cuddy. Head trauma. Coma. The MRI showed damage…”

She grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on from the closet. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Call if there are any changes."

Her words were met with numb silence. She hung up, and rushed out of the bedroom.

* * *

It was still dark when Cuddy passed House's bike parked illegally next to the entrance of the hospital.

He was standing in a blue-carpeted waiting room drilling the state troopers. One officer kept checking a clipboard, patiently answering House’s questions. She could tell by the tone alone that House was trying to find out how the accident happened, as if he could reassemble the broken pieces and make Wilson whole.

She walked up to him as the men nodded and left. “How’s Wilson?”

“He’s in Recovery.” House led her to the area.

There was a chair placed close to Wilson's bed with a black leather jacket thrown carelessly over the back. Wilson looked pale and drawn, his skin waxy under the cold lights. He appeared so frail that only the wires and tubes prevented him from drifting away and out of their lives.

The vitals were steady but lower than she liked. Wilson's head was bandaged, and another dressing was on his forehead nearly covering his left eye. His hands and lower arms were swathed like a mummy and lay on top of the blanket.

House leaned heavily on his cane. “Gash on the forehead. Lacerations on the hands and forearms. Nearly severed a finger on his right hand. They sewed it back. The surgeon thought there would be minimal nerve damage.

"The state troopers said the other car blew like a bomb and blasted the windshield. Hunks of metal and shrapnel-like shards flew all over the road and into Wilson's car, ripping the airbag to shreds. Best guess was that the other vehicle was a chop-shop job." She saw his mouth move, but nothing came out. He continued, "The EMTs said the injuries were more typical of a motorcycle accident than a car."

She couldn't be a doctor right now. This hit too close to home. “So we wait until he wakes up, and—"

“And, if he wakes up his vision will be impaired. The MRI showed damage to the occipital lobe. The extent won't be known until he comes out of the coma, if he comes out of the coma.” He turned away from her and wiped his eyes with the back of his fingers. He looked defeated.

Tears filled her own eyes. It was hard not to ache for both men. She stepped close to his side, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm. Giving him a reassuring squeeze, she rested her cheek on the soft crumpled cloth of his sleeve.

“When he wakes up, House. When he wakes up we'll transfer him to Princeton and give him the best care available. He has you. He has me. He’ll get better, but for now, let’s take it one step at a time.”

* * *

She opened her side drawer, reached for a tissue, dabbed the moisture away from her cheeks, and gave her hair a toss.

Now, she rubber-stamped whatever her oncology department head required before he knew it himself, House never ran out of blind jokes at his friend's expense, and Wilson worked twice as hard so he had an excuse to hide in his office.

Once, she succeeded in prying Wilson loose from his desk to attend a dinner by bribing him with an additional ultrasound machine in radiology for the exclusive use of his department. She still felt responsible and embarrassed about what happened. Seating him next to a sweet little old lady, she thought the woman could do no harm. There was a toast and the grandmother of three tried to be helpful by surreptitiously sliding a wineglass next to his hand. Right after that, Cuddy saw Wilson sweeping his cane toward the nearest exit.

Now she had to deal with finding two lobotomized donors willing to pay $2500 a piece to sit by two antisocial men. Achieving world peace in the next hour had better odds. She decided to leave that fantasy to the diplomats when she saw her chronic problem limping toward her office.

House's bobbing gait attracted her eye. She tracked him from under her eyelashes as she pretended to read a report. He pushed on the French door without knocking and headed for the chair across from her desk.

He affected a slightly submissive, hangdog look. The one he chose from his trunkload of expressions when he was going to ask for a favor. She picked up her pen and began scratching on a notepad, keeping her head down. “No, House. I don’t have time to approve any outrageous tests for your patient today. Go away.”

“You’re slacking off, or you’re not paying your minions enough, Cuddy. My department doesn’t have a patient right now.” He was slumped in the chair checking out her cleavage. She was grateful that she was well endowed. Her breasts actually arrested his attention long enough to level the playing field when she wanted to exert her will over his.

“Just because you don't have a patient doesn't mean you don't want something. Well?"

“Wilson and I need to leave early to get ready for tonight’s fiasco.”

She dropped her pen, sat back in her chair, and stared into his blue eyes. “Are you telling me that I let you go home early nearly every day this week and allowed you to take long lunches for nothing? Tell me you made some headway with Wilson and didn’t spend all your time playing with your Gameboy, destroying asteroids or racing tiny images of cars around a track.”

He pointed to his head. “It keeps my brain sharp, counteracts the effects of my Vicodin buzz.”

“Thanks for sharing what I’ve managed to avoid hearing these many years. What have you been doing with your time that you need to take off this afternoon?”

Face pointing toward the sofa, House looked at her from the corner of his eyes, forehead wrinkling to his hairline. “Not this afternoon. Now. I want to leave now.”

“Why?!” A demand more than a question, she looked at the clock on her desk. “It’s only 11:45.” A headache was coming on. Checking her rising panic, she probed, “Haven’t you been coaching Wilson all week? I told you how serious this was. Do you want to see him get fired?”

“Of course not, but you wanted me to perform a miracle in four days, three actually. Today we're down for the count.”

House ticked the items off his fingers. “I need to pick up our tuxedos from the cleaners, drop him off at his place while I get ready at mine.” He stopped to scratch the stubble on his chin before continuing. "I'll have to go over early to babysit him while he takes his sweet time showering and shaving. Make sure he matches his socks and doesn’t put his pants on backwards. Probably talk him off the ceiling a couple of times without the aid of drugs—him not me.”

In his own irritating way, House made perfectly good sense, but Cuddy was honor bound to push back. “You need to leave five-and-a-half hours early? House, his apartment is less than five minutes away from the hospital. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Yes, you need to lower the neckline on that blouse a couple of—"

“We don’t have time for your Project Runway comments. What have you been doing with Wilson?" She inhaled a sharp breath. "Wait. Let me rephrase that." Pushing her palms into the desk, she leveled her eyes directly into his. "What did you do this week to help Wilson feel at ease about tonight’s dinner so I can assure the Board he’s bringing in donations?”

The expression on House's face was serious as he enumerated, “Worked on table manners.” He leaned forward to drive home his point: “Serving steak instead of spaghetti for tonight's dinner—really a stroke of genius, Cuddy.” He turned his face away from her as if he was trying to remember, and his voice softened. “Checked out the ballroom so Wilson could pace it off and get his bearings. Went to the barber for a haircut and a salon for a manicure."

House leered. "One look at Wilson, and the board will realize their mistake about wanting to fire him. He's too well-groomed to be standing around street corners selling pencils."

House hesitated, and the wry twist on his lips vanished. “He has trouble with wineglasses. Always knocking ‘em over, and it’s not the injured finger that causes his clumsiness. I don’t get why it’s important to him to use a wineglass, but it is.” There was a longer pause as the blue eyes gazed down at the floor. “I don’t think he’s ready.”

She never realized how much House was still hurting until now, but she played along, “Fine. Find Wilson and get out of here, but the two of you better be exactly on time tonight, or—"

"—more clinic hours?” House was halfway to the door looking his irascible self. “Make sure you pencil me in until New Year's Eve 2038.”

Cuddy raised her voice as the door slowly closed. “Don’t think I won’t, House.”

Picking up the seating chart, she wasn’t aware that a sigh escaped as she looked it over. She struck a line through the empty seats across from House and Wilson. Might as well clear as many obstacles away as possible.

So House was trying to warn her that Wilson wasn’t up to speed. Cuddy inspected the ceiling while she reviewed Plan B in her head. She was hoping that she wouldn’t need to do this, but she better be prepared. She pulled her day planner toward her, and confirmed that her contacts with the newspaper and local news station were current. She was meeting with the Executive Board on Monday, and if the discussion returned to terminating Wilson, she would be sure that it was whispered into the right ears how the Big Bad Powers That Be were trying to fire a hardworking blind physician from Princeton Plainsboro. She was sure the press would jump all over it like a kangaroo in heat. It would get messy, and Wilson would hate the publicity, but the media might accomplish what the ADA couldn’t.

Meanwhile, when it was time tonight to begin the first round of toasts to the hospital benefactors, she would silently drink to the success of her two favorite doctors.


	3. Falling-Out

.

House left Cuddy’s office like a schoolboy fleeing school to start summer vacation. He charged through the lobby and out the glass doors where Wilson was patiently waiting. “Hey Wilson, Cuddy gave us a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

Wilson beamed his agreement and moved toward his friend’s voice. Like two train cars coupling, House signaled with his elbow by brushing against Wilson's right arm. In return, Wilson's hand securely latched onto the proffered upper arm and answered, “Lead on, Kemo Sabe.”

They headed out to the parking lot at a surprising clip with House opening the conversation to debate. “Noooo, I’m way cooler than the Lone Ranger.”

“Well, you can’t be Batman, because I refuse to be Robin.”

The two argued nonstop all the way to the cleaners to pick up their tuxes, and escalated the squabble as they criticized each other’s selections on the drive back to Wilson’s apartment. Unknown to Wilson, House deliberately cruised around the block a couple of times until they finally settled upon their superhero identities. Wilson snorted at House’s choice of the Silver Surfer. “Yeah, a silver cane would make a nice touch while balancing on a surfboard.”

Wilson’s pick—the Daredevil, prompted House to wisecrack while Wilson climbed out of his car with his tuxedo in one hand, white cane in the other. “You have the blind part down, work on your reckless disregard for danger before we go to Cuddy’s ball.”

* * *

An hour later, House clutching a silver-topped cane, limped his way up a serviceable cement pathway. At the end was an aluminum framed glass door guarding the murky hall that led to the first floor apartments in Wilson’s building. The corridor was featureless except for evenly spaced doors, and the pungent odor of wet dog and cooked garlic.

He understood the reason Cuddy found this place for Wilson. It was off-campus housing that was an easy walk to the hospital and a couple of convenience stores. It was respectable but shabby. The building had housed a lot of med students in its years, and probably served as an incentive for most to graduate as fast as possible, move out, and begin promising careers.

He’d been to the apartment before, but not often. The first time he saw it, he gave Wilson a hard time. “Kind of a dump, isn’t it?”

“Kinda can’t tell. Besides, they take dogs.”

“Those furry things running on all fours around here are called rats.”

“Seriously, I’m thinking it's time to get a seeing-eye dog.”

“Fine. Make sure it hunts down rats when it’s off duty.”

He bent his head down as he knocked on the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps approaching before he showed his contempt for his surroundings and shouted out, “Hey, Wilson! I’ll huff and I’ll puff—”

Before he could finish, locks and tumblers released at double time, and the door opened. Wilson was still in his slacks and dress shirt, the top button unfastened, the sleeves rolled up, exposing the road map of faint scars traveling from his fingers upward. His hair was tousled, and his face tense and pale. As House walked in, the locks snapped back in place. Wilson’s greeting was strained as he headed to the kitchen. “Jeez, House, can’t you be content to knock non-stop without including a bedtime story?"

"What? And disappoint your zombie geek neighbors? Other than masturbating while looking at Playboy centerfolds, it's the only entertainment they get around here."

Apparently, he didn’t arrive early enough because this was what he hoped to avoid. Wilson winding himself up like a mechanical toy, worrying about what could go wrong, and erecting more obstacles than a steeplechase.

Instead of derailing his friend's irritation, it was becoming contagious. House rolled his eyes as he realized that their superhero powers from earlier were beginning to wane.

The claustrophobic apartment didn’t help. It was slightly larger than Wilson’s old hotel room, scrupulously clean but devoid of character. There was a kitchen alcove with bare countertops and an unused stove and oven, a round table with two chairs off to the side. A small chair served double duty as sentinel to the hall that led to a bath and bedroom and a flat surface for Wilson’s wallet, cane, keys, and spare change. A matching mahogany-colored leather chair and ottoman were crammed into a corner. A couch covered in the same buttery calfskin hid behind a coffee table and cowered under neglected drapes.

The dark hardwood floors were naked. The white walls bare. Nail a crucifix, and it would be little better than a monk’s cell.

The one extravagance was the audio equipment that stretched over the end wall near the overstuffed chair. Riffs of CDs and miles of brushed aluminum knobs were punctuated by assorted speakers.

Clean. Serviceable. Safe. That’s what Wilson wanted.

Taking off his jacket, House placed a paper bag containing plastic wineglasses on the kitchen table and scanned the room for the remote control. Spying it on the ottoman, he clicked on the TV that was wedged among the electronics like an afterthought. He thumped to the sofa where he sat down and stretched his legs on the coffee table. House massaged his thigh as he popped his first round of Vicodin for the evening.

The former amateur chef was brandishing a mayonnaise covered knife. “I’m fixing a turkey sandwich. Want one?” House grunted his interest. Wilson transferred the sandwiches onto paper plates. “If you were coming over to watch TV you could have stayed at your place until it was time to pick me up.”

House was silent as he surfed channels. He stopped when he found a NASCAR race, then raised the volume to drown out Wilson’s nagging.

The sandwiches arrived and placed on the coffee table. "Want water?"

“Any beer?”

Hands automatically moved to their owner’s hips, Wilson's lips pressed into a thin line. “You drew the short straw. I thought you were the designated driver tonight."

House didn’t argue as he attacked the food offering, and a few moments later a bottle of water and a napkin appeared on the wooden table next to his feet.

House muted the volume on the remote while the cars flew around the track. “I brought the wineglasses over if you want to practice. They're on the table."

“No.” Wilson’s hand massaged the back of his neck. “Let’s stick with the ‘mix-up' plan. When they pour the champagne for the toast, you’ll pick up my glass by accident and place it at the one o’clock position near my dinner plate. There’s a ninety percent chance I won’t drown my dinner.”

Was it encouraging or a sign of defeat that his friend was giving up on stemware? House shifted his position on the couch to get a better look at Wilson. He was slouched into his seat with his feet planted on the floor, munching complacently on his sandwich, a broken corner of crust stranded on his chest.

“Thirteen detected a spot on the upper right lung of my patient.”

Fingers went on a scouting mission, running down the right side of Wilson's shirt, plucking up the crumb, and popping it into his mouth. He mumbled, “Secret code confirmed. All systems good to go.”

Neither man volunteered to speak, and once again the volume button was depressed. The room filled with RPMs as the announcer called the laps.

After finishing his sandwich and listening to the mechanical drone of high performance automobiles, the back of Wilson’s head dropped heavily onto the sofa. His mouth opened slightly as he fell asleep. House checked his watch, there was still more than an hour to go before Wilson had to get ready.

Hypnotized by the colorful pinwheel of speeding cars, House was utterly absorbed. Then, all hell broke loose on the screen. A sleek red car spun out of control as it overtook a competitor on a curve. It ricocheted against a wall and began performing front-over-end cartwheels before exploding into flames. Caught directly on camera, the thunderous roar from screeching metal poured from the stereo speakers.

House's thumb immediately mashed the mute button into the remote but not quick enough.

Startled awake by the noise and disoriented from his nap, Wilson's arms involuntarily flew up and shielded his head, his chest shuddered as if the air was knocked out of him. An eternal handful of seconds vanished before his hands lowered and found comfort in kneading the supple leather of the seat cushion and armrest. When his breathing evened, Wilson questioned, “Wha-What was that?! What’s going on?!

A regretful pronouncement spilled from House's lips. “Crash on the racetrack. Forget about it.”

Wilson’s eyebrows raised and his mouth formed an ‘Oh.' His head turned directly toward House, and House realized he was looking dead center into Hurricane Wilson. A unique form of performance art never before seen until the car crash.

Wilson stood up, immediately rammed his foot into the coffee table, and toppled forward, but his hands caught his fall by latching onto the wood surface. He oriented himself with the table's corner and the sofa before navigating toward the audio/video wall where he paced back and forth with one trembling hand fanning over the buttons and jewel cases. “Forget about it?! Tell me what’s happening!”

Black smoke and flames streamed from the hood and cab while the driver remained trapped. Emergency crews frantically sprayed the car with foam. House flipped the channel and powered off the set. He closed his eyes and swallowed before saying, “They’re taking the driver away on a stretcher. He made a thumbs up sign…”

The pacing stopped as Wilson calmed and deliberately walked toward House. The face, if not the eyes managed to zero in on him. “Oh no you don’t, House. Don’t lie to me this time. If that was true, you wouldn’t be shutting off the TV.” He turned away and stood in the middle of the room. “I should have demanded you change the channel as soon as I heard the engines.”

Outwardly, Wilson's appeared in control, but House recognized the signs of leftover emotional debris that littered their friendship since the accident. The silence, the bowed head, one arm hugging the chest, the other hand tracing the scar through the brow. Wilson's soul was fluttering within, seeking safety. Instead, it found a dank well filled with bitter tears and venom.

House leveraged himself away from the sofa. “Wilson, I’m sorry, it was thoughtless, an accident—”

Wilson flung up an arm to cut off the apology. “Yes, an accident. Neither of us can have too many of those, can we?”

“Now’s not the time, Wilson. Snap out of it.”

Wilson snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Great idea, House, but the magic trick isn’t working. Still can’t see. Have any other suggestions?”

Standing a few feet away, House slumped in defeat. Wilson was constructing his own prison cell made out of memories and despair. No logic was going to unlock the door. More for himself than his friend he muttered, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes, remind me, how many times did you bully the doctors into bringing me back when my heart stopped? Not once, but twice?” A twisted bark of laughter accompanied the next words. “And, when I woke up, I was looking at the inside of a coffin.” There was a pause before Wilson spoke quiet and low, “I’ll always have you to thank for it.”

These last words pierced House's heart, triggering his own self-destruct button. He limped a step closer, straightened to his full height, and matched Wilson's voice in volume and tone. “Don’t stop now, why not blame me for Amber’s death?”

A hitched breath escaped from the sightless man, and his hand sliced through the air indicating the discussion was over. Turning on his heel, Wilson headed down the hall and slammed the bedroom door with the force of a shotgun blast. The sound reverberated and lingered before fading away.

Abandoned in the living room, House was furious with himself and with Wilson. He was tired of walking on fucking eggshells. He had never signed on for this kind of crap when he met Wilson in New Orleans.

But the same could be said about Wilson having to deal with House's infarction.

Slowly listing back to the safe harbor of the couch, House sat with his head cradled in his hands and applied logic to Wilson's incendiary remark. He employed a mental slide rule and measured each word for height, depth, and breadth of emotion. Then traced the phrase back to a probable cause.

He recognized the same anger and sarcasm within himself—born from the operation that left him damaged. Also, it was clear that Wilson had not shaken off the PTSD caused by the car crash. Add that to the threat of his job disappearing, one of two things Wilson had professed long ago that he cared about, and House resolved not to yank away the second—their friendship. He'd leave that to Wilson.

Leaving the new calibration of the old friendship behind him, House turned to practicalities about the evening. Should he stay or leave? Call Cuddy and tell her to write Wilson’s career off as a lost cause? He decided to wait and see if Wilson ever planned to step out of his bedroom.

About an hour later, House heard the creak of a hinge, footsteps, and a door close. The white noise of the shower rumbled into the living room. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Might as well stay and wait for Wilson to officially pronounce time of death on their friendship.

He heard the plumbing blow a discordant note through the pipes as the shower shut off. A banquet of sounds followed: muffled rattles and blasts of water, the slap of bare feet on plank flooring, and silence after the bedroom door squeaked closed.

More time passed, and he realized it was getting late. So far, Wilson was a mere apparition. Maybe it would be better to talk another time.

The distant door piped a soft squeal just as he rose, and he heard his former friend's leather shoes scuffle down the hallway. Wilson reappeared carrying his black tuxedo jacket over one arm, and hesitantly called out, “House, are you here?”

The faint scent of Wilson's spicy after-shave followed him into the space. He looked more than presentable. The hair was slightly damp, but curled onto the forehead. Shoes polished, suit pressed, freshly laundered shirt, suspenders. Only the bow tie remained untied and crumpled.

“Yeah. You’re still going?” House sat back down.

Wilson huffed and replied, "Your job is on the line as well as mine.” He placed his jacket on the back of the nearest chair, and returned to his end of the couch. Voice flat, he continued, “I’ve broken it. Our friendship.”

Carefully choosing his words, House rubbed his fingers over his forehead, “Not easy to break a friendship like ours. It’s a Rubik’s cube. You can rotate and move the colored squares wherever you want, and never get them aligned correctly, but the damn cube never breaks apart." He paused and made a stab at their former banter. “Unless you have kryptonite.”

“Only green kryptonite could possibly do the job, and I'm fresh out.”

“Same here.” House waited, but Wilson showed no inclination to hold up his end of the conversation. “We should be going. Cuddy’s going to have our heads on a platter.”

“House." Wilson’s tongue ran over his lips, but his face pointed straight ahead. "I unfairly lashed out at you earlier."

"Yes you did, but don't cover yourself in all the blame. There’s enough to go around. NASCAR. Don’t know what came over me.”

After a beat, they answered in unison. “Cuddy’s damned ball.” They finished the last word on relaxed laughter.

“Want help with the tie?” House asked.

“Yeah.” No traces of rancor remained in Wilson's voice as he fiddled with the ends. He stood up, and walked to the other side of the coffee table.

House followed, hobbling around to his friend's back, grabbing the slick satin fabric in his hands, and attempted to tie the bow as if it was around his own neck. As much as he tried, he could feel his impatience rising as he fumbled with the loops. "Why can't you wear a regular tie like me?"

“Because.” Wilson shrugged.

“Yeah, because it’s another small thing you think you should be able to handle, but I have to fix for you.”

Life was back on track—if the track was the corkscrew of a roller coaster.

Wilson pulled a small case from his slacks pocket and waved a pair of dark-tinted glasses in the air. “Um, you think I should wear these? Some people are uncomfortable….”

“Good idea, Jimmy. Let everyone know which one is the blind oncologist. A sign around your neck advertising ‘Expert Breast Exams While You Wait’ would be better, but who am I to—?"

“Got the message. Do we have time to make the sign?” One eyebrow lifted in place of a leer, and the glasses returned to the case with a snap. Wilson held one end in his hand as if he was asking a question in class. “Put ‘em on the kitchen table for me?”

“Yeah.” The two ends of fabric now resembled a bow, but just barely. As House walked around to the front to add the finishing touches, he had vague misgivings about leaving any protective armor behind. “On second thought, why don’t you hold on to them in case you need to duck out unnoticed by the paparazzi?” The case slipped back into Wilson's pocket.

Coaxing the fabric with nimble fingers, House concentrated on the loops and adjusted the ends. He was surprised to see the bow shape up like a pedigreed winner. A few more push and pulls and it would take best of show.

Wilson’s own nerves were getting the better of him as he tried to stand still while House fussed with his masterpiece. “What are you wearing?”

House felt fingertips dance over his shirtfront, tie and lapels. “What the hell are you doing?”

The fidgeting stopped. “I wanted to see what you are wearing.”

A pause. “Stick to that story, and don’t touch anything below the waist.” The warning was delivered with mock menace.

Wilson answered with a quick nod, his lips slightly parted as his fingers once again roamed. His hands slowed, and he touched and smoothed the fabric with long sober movements. Clinical but thoughtful.

House was struck by how much emotion could be transmitted in those hands. No wonder most of the time the face was unreadable. All the reactions that displayed in the dark eyes were transferred to the sure fingers.

When Wilson finished, he lowered his head, but did not move away. “Would you mind if I touched your face? I haven’t seen it for nearly two years. You're becoming a voice and a benevolent arm to hitch a ride.”

House didn’t say a word, but moved his friend’s hands to his temples. He closed his eyelids and waited as the fingers traced from the hairline down, gently touching and stroking the forehead, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Measuring and molding the nose, cheeks, lips, and chin. A gentle pinch on his right cheek followed by a pair of playful taps, and the hands withdrew.

“Are you clean-shaven all the time, or is it for…?” Wilson’s voice sounded like he swallowed a throat full of rotgut whiskey,

“Tonight.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“The hair is grayer.”

"Not to me."

Without warning, Wilson gave House a light, awkward hug. Quiet words choked with emotion stumbled from his lips. “You don’t think I know how much you’ve done for me, House. Stuck by my side while I was a stubborn, self-pitying jerk. If not…well then…you’re an idiot.”

He began to pull away, but House stopped him by placing his hands on his shoulders, giving them a squeeze, and no vow of loyalty or love could be forged stronger within the embrace.

House held the world record for avoiding confessions and sentimentality, but words long suppressed demanded to be spoken. “How many times did you put up with my behavior—before, during, and after the infarction? I'm sorry as hell that there was ever a reason for you to thank me for helping you.”

They held a few seconds longer, then stepped back, and looked into each other’s eyes.

House could have sworn his friend's dark brown eyes were once again alive and trained on him, but the diagnostician within decided it was an illusion caused by the pooling of unshed tears in his and Wilson's eyes.

He was startled by Wilson's next words.

"This is crazy, but just for a fraction of a second I thought I could see your face."

The admission left House speechless, but he quickly regained his composure. "Did you see me dance a jig too?" He scornfully deflected. He did not want to dwell on chemical reactions or speculate about metaphysics.

"Uh, no." Wilson smiled at House's dismissal.

"Good. Then you're not too delusional to go to the ball. Your pumpkin awaits. It’s time to go.”

Wilson shrugged on his jacket, pocketed the items on the chair, and tucked the folded cane under his arm. He held the door open for House so he could lock up after him. “I’m ready. What could possibly go wrong tonight when I have my fairy godmother to watch over me?”

House didn’t stop as he limped by. "You're wrong, Wilson. We’re superheroes. Remember it unless you want a glass slipper shoved up that pain-in-the-ass of yours.”

 

 

 

[ ](http://www.statcounter.com/myspace/)


	4. Donor's Ball

.

 

The Director’s Ball was the crown jewel of New Jersey’s charity circuit, the envy of every fund-raiser in the state, and Dr. Lisa Cuddy’s baby—long before Rachel.

The lavish function was held in one of the state’s most prestigious hotels built by robber barons and maintained by various scalawags ever since. Some thought it was only surpassed by the Vatican. Three-story high marble pillars melted into the ceiling's painted clouds where cherubs danced on chubby toes. Not one but two rows of shimmering chandeliers that rivaled the crystal confection in "The Phantom of the Opera" cast rainbows and radiant fire over the lobby. For the wealthy, only the best inlaid parquetry floors and velvet Aubusson carpets touched the designer label shoes fashioned from the leather mantles of aristocratic Italian cows. To dazzle the eye, gold leaf moldings spewed burnished lava over ivory walls, leaving tasteful spatters on the bronze ormolu mounts of Louis Quinze furniture.

The splendid foyer made the rich feel entitled, while the not-so-entitled yearned to learn French and build guillotines in their basements. It was the best of times and the worst of times depending on your tax bracket.

Most of the department heads and handpicked specialists found the evening to be a necessary evil. House and Wilson thought it was the first circle of hell.

* * *

Two handsome, tuxedo clad men with one cane between them walked nearly shoulder-to-shoulder through the lobby’s splendor. One was disgusted by the ostentatious display and the other oblivious. Wilson whispered, “Does the lobby still give off gamma rays?”

“I’d borrow your glasses, but my retinas are already damaged.”

“Insert ‘blind leading the blind’ comment here?”

“Or limping twerp leading whining asshole. Your call.”

Muted music from the string quartet buried inside the grand ballroom grew louder as they approached. One of the strings mewed off-key like a starving cat begging for a handout. House winced at the stray notes as Wilson withdrew his hand from his arm and stopped. His head twisted to and fro like a caged lion looking to escape, but attempted a feeble stab at humor to deflect his panic. “Jesus, I can’t afford to lose my hearing too.”

“There are dogs willing to be neutered to have hearing half as good as yours.”

“I’m thinking small animal oncology is looking better all the time.”

“Examining x-rays, doing surgery on patients with large, sharp teeth. Not an option, Wilson.”

They were close to the entrance when Wilson’s feet became attached to rebar and sank into the hotel's foundation. He turned into a statue right before House’s eyes and would not budge. With feet splayed, hands on hips, bowed at the waist with head down, Wilson reminded House of the tragic comic book movie hero who loses faith in his superhuman abilities. The pivotal point in the plot when the audience forgets to eat popcorn and waits breathlessly for the inevitable and courageous comeback.

House intently watched while he leaned forward on his cane. Maybe the film snapped in this version, because nothing was happening.

He began analyzing. Who provided the motivation to spur the superhero on in the summer blockbusters or during sweeps week? Why, it was always the wingman with a sappy story about who would help the helpless, win one for the Gipper, or report the jaw-dropping news that a meteor was on a collision course with Earth and about to wipe out six of its seven land masses. It was his job—Robin, Tonto, Samwise, and Willow Rosenberg all rolled into one. Where was the magic cape and secret decoder ring when you needed one? He decided on a brilliant strategy—act as if everything was normal.

Looking through the double doors, he made a thorough investigation of the floor layout and those assembled. Hell, more people than last year, everyone schmoozing. To top it off, Cuddy was heading his way in a low cut red gown. What he wouldn't give to get a closer look at her neckline right now, but he needed her to keep her distance. He made a time out signal with his hands, and drew a silent sigh of relief as she stopped with her arms on her waist and her head tilted, she mimed a question, _What gives?_

He raised his arm and displayed three fingers. He needed three minutes. It only took three seconds for a sleepy driver to cross into the oncoming lane of traffic and deposit Wilson's life and his own into this cockeyed universe. He hoped three minutes would be enough for him to galvanize his friend into action.

“Wilson…Wilson?!”

“Huh?” The lips barely moved and the body stood frozen.

Keeping his tone calm and low, “Let’s go in. We’re missing a great party. Noisy, but not too many people. There are martini and cigar bars inside. I’ll treat you to your favorite girl-tini while I GPS the place for you.”

Wilson was going under for the second time this evening. A bitter edge laced the light cadence of his speech, “None of it is sticking to the walls, House. Can you fling it harder?” His friend’s face was hard and cold as he shook his head and refused the offer.

House was at a loss. Desperation was beginning to override his own grounding cynicism. He was losing his patient. If he didn’t administer an electrical jolt to the system he was sure there would never be another chance. He dug into his inexhaustible bag of lies and rooted out the largest, stinking one he could find. He breathed in and let the air out with dramatic histrionics, sighing and sounding mournful. “Yeah, it doesn’t matter if you go or not. The board doesn’t care what goes down tonight. I didn’t want to tell you, but Cuddy received word that they drew up a severance package. You’re out, and they asked her to pull my contract for review. Should we buy an Airstream trailer, and with our new found freedom travel across the country?”

The statue began to sputter and come to life. “Wha-What do you mean I’m out?! Th-they’re not giving me a shot?!” Wilson’s surprised voice suddenly dipped an octave lower, and he snarled like a rabid dog, “They pulled your contract, those sons-of-bitches?!”

Pleased that Wilson was coming around, he pressed on, “I’m sorry, Wilson. I didn’t want to tell you. Thought there might be a last minute reprieve, but I saw Cuddy inside, and she wouldn’t look me in the eye. The Board made its decision. If you want, I’ll come to your exit interview and go on record about the big mistake they're making.”

The string quartet was packing up, and the dance music would be starting soon, but a sidelong glance confirmed that people were still socializing. Some were milling around the ice bar requesting their last cocktail before sitting down.

His friend was furious, and apparently, Wilson didn’t realize he paraphrased Dr. McCoy’s classic epithet, “Damn it, House, I’m a doctor, not a banker! How dare they boil the medical profession down to dollars and cents?!” House thought he’d never see the day, but his self-effacing friend bit out, “People survive because of me!”

House waited and watched. It was up to Wilson to make the next move.

A cold, grim smile pulled at Wilson's dimple. “The severance agreement—I need to sign it before it becomes binding, right?”

“Right.”

“Then it’s not a done deal—even if they think it is. I’m not going down without a fight.” White-hot flames shot from each word. “Those assholes are going to regret every dime the legal department charged to write up that agreement. I’m going into that room and work that crowd like a politician running for office.”

_Holy crap, Batman!_ House reined back his glee. “You’re going to exploit your evil panty-peeler charm, and turn it into a cash raising machine?”

Wilson’s face was etched in flint. “They want rainmakers? Let’s make it rain until the governor of New Jersey has to call out the National Guard.” The tight lips softened as he continued, “But, let’s make a run on the ice bar first. I look irresistible with a martini glass in my hand.”

* * *

The ballroom was a mini-me of the lobby. A row of chandeliers hung down the center axis from painted heavens where plump winged infants fed peeled grapes to each other and glided to a tango across the clouds. Flanking both sides of the room were gilded cream panels inset with long gold leaf mirrors that reflected an infinity of images and multiplied the net worth of the attendees into the bizillions.

As the men walked over the plush scarlet carpet toward the towering ice sculpture, House described changes in the layout since they last did a reconnaissance.

At the far end of the room was a glossy ebony dance floor. Next to it and along the back wall a small orchestra tuned up, and a slinky hot songstress adjusted her microphone. The other two-thirds were filled with long tables covered in flowing ivory tablecloths with gold bamboo backed chairs next to each elaborate place setting.

In each corner a specialty station was erected featuring lit ice sculptures to dramatically highlight its purpose and theme for the evening, “All That Glitters.”

The ice cream table was a child’s vision of "Candyland." A block of pink ice was carved into a tall glass filled with champagne sherbet punch and a matching ice "straw." Countersunk into the surrounding crushed ice were containers of mounded sweet, creamy, pastel ice cream, and insulated containers overflowed with sauces and toppings.

The open bar had a glowing glacier that bartenders chipped chunks of ice to chill drinks.

A luminous green ice mural designed with arching fronds and palm trees soared behind glass topped teak humidors packed with contraband Cubans.

The martini bar drew the most attention. Two bartenders accepted requests, measured ingredients, and poured the concoction into one of the holes in the top of a four-foot block of ice engraved with deep, elaborate swirls and lit below by a slowly changing light wheel. Gravity did the rest. The beverage traveled through a corkscrew tunnel depositing a perfectly iced martini into a waiting glass.

The unacknowledged theme for this year’s evening was the same as every year, “Money Will Move You Up The Ladder of Success.” And it was Cuddy’s clever floor plan that made this social event the biggest moneymaker of the year. The guests of honor, the Executive Board and their spouses or dates for the evening, sat at a long head table that faced the length of the room. Four long tables were arranged perpendicular to the Board’s table. Department heads and high profile specialists were sprinkled up and down its lengths in no discernible order. It allowed the doctors to network with different donors, and not become monopolized every year by the same merchant princes.

Cuddy unashamedly deployed "above the salt" seating for the charity set. Corporate presidents could immediately gauge their financial standing by where they found their place cards. Many attendees groused that the seating was too blatant, but no one turned down an invitation. They were all too curious to see if their status waxed or waned, and checked their budgets to see if more money could be donated the following year.

As the two doctors ordered and waited for their martinis, House spotted Cuddy charging over to them, her red dress fluttering around her like a warning flag. He didn’t want her near Wilson until the evening was over, or before he could find a private moment alone to tell her about his scheme. She slowed when she saw his hand waving in front of his neck as if his fingers would machete his head off. When she stopped, he shooed her off with wild swings of his arm. He was immensely relieved to see her walk away, but before she went back to her guests, she pointed to his and Wilson's seats and shrugged her shoulders in disbelief over his antics.

He turned back around to Wilson as he heard his sharp inquiry.

“What are you doing!?”

“Nothing.” House was all innocence.

A cynical laugh escaped. "Oh, no. It's something. You're creating enough wind turbulence to lift an Apache helicop—”

“Dr. Wilson! How good to see you!” The enthusiasm of the greeting was exactly the opposite of the petite blonde’s figure. Her wide smile was as genuine as the boulder on her wedding finger.

“Mrs. Scott? It’s been a long time. That’s good news for your mother, isn’t it?”

House was pleased to be rescued, and bounced his cane as he listened with half an ear to the pair chat. He sipped a second martini while approving Wilson’s deft segue into clinical trials that would benefit her mother’s type of cancer, if funding could be approved. Before Cuddy finished tapping on her champagne glass for attention and announced that everyone should be seated for the first toast, the woman walked away promising to drop off a check to the Dean of Medicine that very evening.

"Show time, Wilson. Ready?"

“Absolutely. I have nothing to lose.” Wilson raised the martini glass to his lips for one last swallow before handing it to House to place on a tray with the other empty glasses. They headed to their chairs.

House thought of all the lies that he had fed Wilson this week, topped by his latest whopper in the lobby. It proved to be motivating, but also demonstrated once again that there was no God. If there was, House would be a pile of black ash smudged into the crimson carpet.

* * *

Everything started well enough. House was on Wilson’s right, and he worked the wrong glass scam. Wilson found the glass easily and sipped from time to time while speaking to the woman on his left who hung on his every word; nearly wringing tears from her as he talked about the children’s cancer ward.

House was impressed. His friend had hidden talents and the makings of an excellent door-to-door salesman.

Both were pleased that the chairs opposite them were still unoccupied after Cuddy’s introductions. Maybe the couple was a no-show. Just as well, Cuddy had placed them higher up the table than either liked.

The entrees were served. House softly called the food positions on Wilson's plate, and Wilson successfully speared a green bean. Red and white wine poured generously into glasses at each table setting. House noted the coordinates for the potentially destructive bubble glass full of cabernet and the tulip of chardonnay alongside it, murmuring the information while people engaged in conversation around them. Wilson could make the call if he wanted to drink or not.

The seats across from them remained vacant. House thought it looked like they were home free, but such a notion was the kiss of death.

A tall redhead with big hair and a boob job with enough silicone only if she wanted three sets of breasts, wobbled on unsteady legs and sat down across from Wilson.

She tried to gain the oncologist’s attention by pouting and flashing her bright red collagen lips. She adjusted the top of her gown, corralling her bosom so it nearly overflowed the top. The plunging neckline ensured a view of the two pink spheres crushing together with enough force for a diamond to be formed from a lump of charcoal. Her nipples pointed upward with such a vengeance that the putti angels trembled behind their painted clouds thinking they were under siege.

Wilson’s head was down. He was concentrating on his steak.

She was more than a little drunk when she successfully captured his attention. She opened her mouth and slurred in a shrill nasal voice, “Why Dr. Wilson, I’m Deirdre Johnson from Long Island." (It came out, _Woi, Dawctah Will-sin, Oim Deerdruh Jawnson frum Lawng-Guyland._) "I've wanted to make your acquaintance for the longest time, and talk to you about having a breast reduction. Find out if you thought it would be harmful to my breasts or cause cancer.”

The conversation went dead silent around them, and House almost choked on his food. The woman no more wanted to have a breast reduction than Miley Cyrus wanted a face-lift.

The silverware was placed carefully on the rim of the plate as his friend looked up with a gentle smile and eyebrows knitted together above the unfocused eyes. “You don’t mean for me to conduct an examination right here and now, do you?”

The woman let out an audible gasp, and House could feel his hackles rise. Wilson’s face immediately became blank and turned to stone.

“Oh my God, you poor, poor man! I had no idea you can't see!"

Soft words poured from granite lips. “Yes, well thank you for caring.”

The knife cut deeper. “I don’t understand. How can you work at the hospital? You don’t do surgery, do you?”

Now, the whole room went quiet. The plump painted angels peeked over their clouds with their mouths open.

“There are new techniques to help the blind every day. You should come and observe me and my seeing-eye dog in the operating room.”

House watched Deirdre's emerald eyes narrow and convert into ruby lasers. He could see she was taking Wilson's breezy mocking as a personal and unforgivable insult. She went on the offensive. “What happened? A polo pony accident? BB gun? Your fancy lab blew up?”

Wilson's head was back down, his left hand rubbing the scar above his eye.

House pushed back his chair and began to rise. A viper's nest of stinging insults that would drain the silicone right out of her bulbous knockers were about to launch out of his mouth when he felt a restraining hand on his arm. A reassuring squeeze and tap followed.

With the earnestness of an Eagle Scout Wilson began, “Nothing that exciting. Two cars on a highway. An accident. Happens every day. Didn’t even make the morning news because it didn’t affect anyone’s commute.”

House slumped down in his seat.

Told with practiced ease by the doctor famous for being thanked when delivering fatal prognoses to his patients, this time it was more impressive—the speech would serve as the eulogy for Wilson's career.

But Wilson wasn’t finished. “Accidents happen, right Ms. Johnson? Why don’t we drink to that?”

House caught a movement from the corner of his eye, Wilson’s right hand. Thumb and index fingers tapping out a little dance on the table that sounded like Morse code. His eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, he got the message. He noticed the hand was poised as if ready to push the plunger on a pinball machine. House estimated the trajectory, and in a quiet voice that would only be detected by canines and his friend, he breathed, “11:58.” The hand angled a fraction to the right, and then moved forward like a jet heading down a runway, picking up speed for liftoff until the fingers contacted the stem of the huge glass of red wine…and fumbled…magnificently. The glass flew several inches down the table tipping on its side, the globe hitting the cloth with an off-key bell tone, and the contents exploding like fireworks on the 4th of July. A glorious purplish-red flower pattern spread over Deirdre’s décolletage and beaded silk gown.

She rose from the chair, her hands balled into fists, and looked at the complete destruction of her dress. “You’ve ruined my genuine Valentino!” Her voice ratcheted up a notch, and she screeched, “Look what you’ve done, you imbecile!”

It was Wilson’s turn to stand up, his face composed once again in his best bedside manner. “If only I could, Ms. Johnson. By the way, the correct word is idiot, not imbecile. Please accept my apologies for being a clumsy one.”

The woman's mouth opened and closed, intermittently emitting vowels and gasps until a balding, heavyset, and very red-faced man rushed over to the table and hastily steered his wife away. He nodded and mumbled a few words of apology. There was a flash of red, and House saw Cuddy follow the couple out of the room. He could picture her making solicitous noises, and offering to dry-clean the dress. She might not be the best medical mind, but she knew when to exploit a weakness by kissing ass, and she wouldn't waste this opportunity.

Busboys hurried over to blot what was left of the wine from the tablecloth, and when Wilson sat back down, one of the waiters asked him if he would care for more. With weary acceptance Wilson answered, “Yes, some more cabernet, but pour it into a highball glass. Thanks.”

He resumed eating as if nothing happened. House did the same, and soon the people around them took their cue, and conversation resumed to a normal level.

House was finishing the last of the potatoes on his plate when he heard a low voice next to him. “Guess I signed the death warrant on my career tonight, but I'd die happy if you answered one question.”

“Shoot.”

“Please tell me Deirdre's dress was white.”

“As white as the back of the blank check that husband will give Cuddy.” House had little doubt that the CEO would write a check large enough to buy damage control and prevent any rumors that would send his stocks into a tailspin. There was a twitch of a smile curling at the corners of his lips. First time tonight, he didn’t have to lie to Wilson.

* * *

“Gotta go pee?” House was surprised when Wilson stood up from the table and unfurled his cane.

“No. I was thinking of checking out the cigar bar. This time the treat is on me.”

House leveraged up by holding one hand onto the table and the other to the chair, but Wilson’s hand was already on his shoulder pushing him back down. “I think it’s about time that I try working the room on my own. Make The Powers That Be weep before I go. Just point me in the right direction.”

House gave coordinates for a few landmarks, and watched as Wilson took a few steps, turned around and returned. He looked up and said dryly, “Got lost already?”

“No. I forgot these.” He removed the dark eyeglasses from the case and put them on. “Don’t want anyone to miss my impersonation of a blind man." The eyebrows waggled up and down above the shades. "Should increase contributions by fifteen percent.” He turned, and took a step, but then turned back once again. “Uh, House?”

Wilson had a sheepish grin on his face. House sensed another man-hug coming like the one earlier, but possibly more ferocious, and wanted to avoid a public display. By his estimation, another wasn’t due for twenty years. Maybe he could head it off by concentrating his irritation into his next question. “What now?!”

The mouth widened into a full-strength smile. Wilson beamed his thanks with a nod, and walked away.

House watched his friend tapping and sweeping his cane until he made his way to a group of Trump-type real estate investors. He could make out Wilson introducing himself and joining in the conversation. Five minutes later one of the tycoons was laughing and leading the snake charmer to little Havana.

Turning away from the retreating figure, House muttered under his breath, “Mazel Tov, Wilson.”

He then hungrily attacked his crème brulee with so much gusto that he didn’t stop until he demolished Wilson’s portion as well.

* * *

The band played old favorites. Couples danced. Brandy flowed. The evening mellowed and began to flag when the sexy twenty-something lead singer left with an eighty-plus millionaire. The musicians packed up their instruments. The angels on the ceiling gathered their clouds together, paired up, and went to sleep.

Stray voices echoed through the room.

Two friends sat and talked, jackets and ties off, collars unbuttoned as they sipped the last of their brandy and savored the final puffs on their cigars. Every once and a while, one could be heard mimicking a heavy New York accent, “You ruined my genuine Valentino!”

They were so busy laughing at their attempts at getting the exact inflection, neither one heard Cuddy come up from behind. “Congratulations Wilson! You broke records tonight. The Executive Board was so impressed they're thinking of replacing me with you as head fundraiser." She finished with a good-natured laugh, "Now I’m fearing for my own job.”

“What was that?” Wilson came to full alert and tilted his head to better catch what she said.

And the diagnostician carefully watched Wilson’s reaction.

“Mrs. Scott guaranteed to underwrite any new clinical trials your department wants to come up with, and Mr. Johnson insisted on completely funding our new pain management center as long as it's headed by you. After Deirdre’s dramatics and your networking, _everybody_ wanted to show their support and pledged funds to your department.”

“Um-uh, good news, Cuddy. Keep serving steak, and I’ll be your point man.”

House looked at Cuddy. Her eyes sparkled. She looked two inches taller because she was floating on air. He launched his own version of a compliment by first prefacing it with a raised eyebrow. “Mrs. Johnson’s breasts don’t hold a candle to your own.”

Before Cuddy could complete an eye roll, House questioned, “How much are the contributions to my department?”

"Diagnostics is $12,000 in the hole. I had to bribe a few donors with free tickets to next year’s dinner when they saw you were here.” She smiled as if she had a secret. “Actually, you must be mellowing. Last year you cost your department $20,000.” She winked at him and squeezed Wilson’s shoulder before she excused herself by explaining she needed to review the final bill with the event manager.

He could hear a snort coming from Wilson’s direction. The man was lounging in his chair and relaxed for the first time this week. There was a smile plastered on the cross-eyed face.

The look flickered and became serious as all the pieces fell into place. Wilson wagged a finger. “You lied to me, House! You told me I was out on my ass!”

“The threat was real, I moved it up a few weeks. What else could I do? Six feet from the door you turned into one of Cuddy’s ice statues and had a meltdown.”

Wilson's hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, and you came through by applying one of your unorthodox treatments. Scaring the crap out of me."

"That's what friends are for, Wilson. I'm totally devoted to your ass."

"Remind me…what size glass slipper did you shove up there, because I think a half-dozen vials of vicodin and a whiteboard have taken up residence already, and I can't find my bow tie."

House allowed a smile when he stood up and stretched. As he pulled his jacket on, he saw a ribbon of black silk crumpled on the floor near Wilson's feet. He picked up and aimed it at Wilson's face. He then thumped the floor twice with his cane as if it was a holy staff. “I’m calling the evening a victory. Good triumphed over evil.”

“The Daredevil raised money for the hospital.” Wilson slipped into his jacket and pocketed the tie. Without the usual protocol, he reached out in the direction of his best friend’s arm, and took hold of it.

“And, with the Silver Surfer’s help, the evil witch was vanquished.” House felt Wilson's hand move up his arm until it was level with his own heart. Transferring his cane to his left hand for a moment he brushed his fingers over his friend's. “And, you finally learned how to play the cripple card.”

They walked in companionable silence into the jewel box lobby where Wilson suddenly stopped short with a stricken look on his face. “My God House, I’m not becoming you, am I?"

This time, House spoke and offered a pat on Wilson's hand before moving forward. His words lingered in the lobby as they walked into the cool night air.

“No, Wilson. It still takes the two of us to rule the world.”

 

.

* * *

 

**A/N:** Mazel tov = good fortune or good luck

 

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